And Not Or
by ShinySherlock
Summary: What does Sherlock want? What does John need?
1. Chapter 1

_I'm flying by the seat of my pants on this one, guys. Read at your own risk. I've got lots of ideas and will add chapters as they come to me. Mostly I want to investigate, if Sherlock is somewhere on the asexual spectrum, how does John fit in with that and still get what he wants/needs, physically and emotionally? We shall see what happens. Thanks go to wiggleofjudas for brainstorming and betaing._

_x-x-x_

Christchurch is relentlessly beautiful, all trees and sky and water, green and blue everywhere.

Sarah is speaking truths. They are sitting on the dock. She has her toes in the water and he stares at them as she says these things to him.

"I don't know what I want with you," she sums up. "And you don't know what you want with me."

"Yeah," he mumbles. He wants to throw stones across the water but there aren't any.

"He's always at the edges," she continues.

"Or in the bloody middle," John says, letting out a mirthless huff.

"But it's not a competition. Or, it doesn't _have_ to be."

"I'm fairly certain Sherlock thinks it is."

"I'm fairly certain it's possible for Sherlock to be wrong."

And then he does laugh. She makes him laugh, and this is awful. If he jumps in the water and slips under, will that make it better? Easier to hear? His toes seem huge next to hers. She has dainty toes.

"If he could ever understand that, or allow us both to be equally important to you . . ." She looks over to him. She won't say more until he meets her eyes, so he does. He needs to know how that sentence ends.

"I'm very good at sharing," she says.

He can't quite parse that, but he knows instinctively what it could mean, what his response is.

His gaze is steady, his voice rough. "I love you."

Her smile is sad. "And I love you."

"And yet," John says.

She looks away, down. "And yet."


	2. Chapter 2

They share a cab on the way home from the airport. Her place is closer, and when they stop on her street, the potentially awkward moment never happens. She invites him up, suitcases and all, and he knows what she means.

They drop everything in a heap in the living room and wind their arms around each other, kiss languidly in their traveling clothes. She pulls him towards the bedroom and they make love slowly, reverently, because it feels like the last time.

When he leaves, it's strangely fine-sad, but fine-and she follows him to the door, wrapped in a blanket, to kiss him goodbye.

"It's all right," she reassures him. "I'll see you Monday, barring any case-related emergency."

He marvels at her acceptance.

"Try not to look too dashing," she says, and her voice is suddenly fragile.

"I don't deserve you," he says.

"No, you don't," she answers plainly.

One more kiss and she shuts the door gently.

x-x-x

When he gets back to the flat, Sherlock is stretched out on the sofa, looking for all the world as though he were reading, had been for hours, and yet, John has the feeling that it's all a charade.

"Expected you sooner," Sherlock says, but then he lowers the book and takes a proper look at John. When Sherlock goes right back to reading, John is grateful, and hauls his luggage towards the stairs to his room.

"Mrs. Hudson brought up some of her almond biscuits," Sherlock offers, and John pauses for a fraction of a second on the first stair.

"Ta," he says. "I'll be right down."


	3. Chapter 3

Several months pass, months full of cases and excitement but not yet one successful conversation with Sherlock about dating and boundaries. And yet maybe John's the one who needs to work on boundaries because although he is sat across the table from Paulina, who is talking to him, he is thinking about Sherlock, who is literally miles away and also directly in his head at the same time.

Paulina deserves better. _She's intelligent and charming and beautiful and she really does have rather a large nose_, John thinks uncharitably.

He drinks more wine and smiles at her and prays she never learns that Sherlock has dubbed her "The One With the Nose" because then she will most likely stop having sex with him-though she may dump him soon enough simply because he cannot stop looking at it and he's sure she'll catch him at it any second now.

She doesn't. She actually wants to go home with him, and though taking her within striking distance of Sherlock seems like a really, really stupid idea, he's halfway to drunk and all the way to horny, so they end up in his room, fucking efficiently, and he's finding it all a bit perfunctory.

Afterwards, she seems inclined to stay and snuggles into the crook of his arm. He counts down backwards from a thousand until she seems quite asleep and then disentangles himself, cleans himself up, pulls on boxers and a t-shirt. Sex is one thing. Sleeping with her feels like a lie.


	4. Chapter 4

Things with Paulina come to their inevitable end. John climbs the seventeen steps and instinctively knows Sherlock will be in the main room, waiting to deduce it all from his footsteps, the way he enters the room.

"Well. There's that done, then," Sherlock says from the window, where he stands in his dressing gown and bare feet.

John frowns at him. "What d'you mean?"

"It was only a matter of time. You've been averaging about six weeks per girlfriend."

John narrows his eyes at his flatmate. "I wonder why that might be."

Sherlock turns around at John's tone and cocks his head at him, like he ought to know better. "John. They don't leave you because of me."

John shakes his head and bites his tongue, hanging his coat on its hook and moving towards the kitchen but then, no. John turns back and points at him.

"Actually, Sherlock, that's exactly why they leave."

Sherlock ignores this argument. "I don't see why you want a girlfriend anyway," he says instead.

John's eyes widen, and he can't form a sentence to explain.

"They get in the way," Sherlock says, waving a dismissive hand.

"In the way of what?" John asks quietly, but his hands curl and uncurl.

"The work. Us."

John looks down a moment. "Well. Maybe that's not enough for me."

He looks up then, and for an instant he sees the shock on Sherlock's face, something akin to hurt, before Sherlock regains control over his features. He steps forward, walking around to the fireplace so that John can't see his face.

"Well, then, at least could you find one that isn't dull, or stupid, or ridiculous, or cold-"

"Cold?"

"-I mean, find one like Sarah; she wasn't a complete idiot, at least."

And John feels the words welling up in him, the kind of words that cut, that hurt, and he tamps them down, swallows them, and they are sand in his throat.

"I'm not going to talk to you about Sarah," John says instead. Sherlock turns slightly to look at him. "You just have to understand-no. You just have to _accept_ that I need that kind of relationship in my life-"

Sherlock opens his mouth but John shakes his head.

"No, no, not sex. I mean, yes, sex, but it's not _just_ sex-"

"Well, what is it then?" Sherlock demands in consternation, hands flying up as he turns to face John.

John steps closer to him, stopping behind his armchair. "It's physical contact, yes. But from someone you have an emotional connection with, someone who cares about you, someone you care about in return," John attempts, and he is not surprised that Sherlock needs the explanation. "Look, I know you claim to function best on a purely cerebral plane, but that's just-"

John pauses and rubs a hand along his forehead. "Different people need different things." It feels simplistic and inadequate, but he can't sum it up any better.

Sherlock is quiet long enough for John to lower his hand and look up at him. His face is a mask, and John feels guilty.

"Despite your appalling tendency to state the obvious, I actually do value your company, John."

"I know you do, Sherlock."

"And if consorting with uninteresting women who claim to 'care' about you is what makes you happy, then by all means, continue."

John frowns. "I don't actually require your permission."

"No. You don't." Sherlock takes another step forward, taking John's space for his own. His voice deepens. "But maybe you do require a reminder that being with me, working with me, has improved your life more than any other 'relationship' you've had. Any woman who aspires to truly care for you must understand and accept that as well."

The corner of John's mouth twitches up and he meets Sherlock's gaze with his own.

"Well, then," he says. "I'm fucked."

It's not what Sherlock expected, apparently, because his rare, genuine smile is tugging at his lips, and he seems unsure of himself.

"Or not, as the case may be," Sherlock ventures quietly.

And John giggles. "Right," he says, trying to stop, but they burst out of him again, and Sherlock truly smiles.

"Dinner?" Sherlock asks once John works through his fit.

John puffs out a breath. "Starving."


	5. Chapter 5

_Thank you to wiggleofjudas for late night beta services. *mwah*._

_x-x-x_

Sarah doesn't see John very often, despite them working at the same place. She's mostly on weekdays during the day and ends up trapped in her office, buried with more administrative duties than she'd like, and he nearly always ends up covering shifts at the last minute, usually in the evening or on weekends. She hasn't seen him for three weeks when she knocks on his office door and enters when he says, "Come in."

"Hello, stranger," she greets with a smile, and she is surprised by how disproportionately glad he seems to see her.

"Oh, dear. Rough shift, was it?" she asks. It's obviously more than that, but she gives him a way out if he isn't in the mood to share.

"Oh. Er. Rough _life_," he grumbles. He tries to shake himself out of it. "Sorry. What's up?" he asks.

"Paperwork," she answers apologetically. "You forgot to sign a couple things."

"Ah, sorry. Too many late nights," he says.

He looks exhausted, but more than that, he looks sad. She smiles a little. "More 'book events'?" she teases gently.

"Ha," he says, though he smiles. She walks around to his side of the desk and he scoots his chair over so that she can lay the folders open on his desk.

"Where the red arrows are," she says, pointing. There are rather a lot of them.

"Christ. Sorry."

"It's all right," she says, and without thinking, sinks her fingers against his scalp and ruffles his hair.

He freezes, pen hovering over paper.

"Oh, sorry!" she is saying, embarrassed and retracting her hand. She takes a step back, but then he is standing.

"It's fine," he says, and his eyes are strangely intense. "Please don't be sorry."

He seems on the edge of something, and she has to ask. "Are you . . . is everything all right?"

"Yes," he answers, but she's not convinced. "Yes."

She raises her eyebrows.

"Okay, not exactly. Pretty sure I'll never have sex again. But other than that," John says, running his hands over his brow in mortification.

So he's seeing someone. Was seeing someone.

"Sherlock marking his territory again?" she asks, trying very hard to keep the bitterness from entering her voice.

He looks up at her. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said."

"No," she shakes her head. This is going all wrong. "No, I shouldn't have pushed-"

"God, that's not-no," John rushes to say. "You can ask me anything, always. Always."

She stops trying to move away, and wonders if this is true. She knows John means it, but there are hard questions bubbling in her throat.

"So. Nothing's changed. With him," she asks tentatively.

"No."

"And nothing's changed with you."

"What do you mean?" John asks, a hint of defensiveness entering his voice.

"You give him whatever he wants. Every time," she explains, her voice quiet. His face has gone a bit hard at that, and she can see him misunderstanding her.

She puts a hand on his arm, and his eyes flick down to it.

"It's all right for you to ask for what _you_ want." Her other hand comes up to his cheek, and he inhales sharply. "You deserve to have what you want," she whispers.

And she seems to have set him off with her words, with her hands, because he huffs out a breath and his blue eyes are dark and shining at her like she has unlocked something inside him.

He leans into her arms, and she's half sure he will kiss her, and completely sure that she'll let him, but instead his face comes to rest against her neck. He makes an anguished sound and goes to pull away, but she slips her arms around to hold him, and then they're so nearly kissing, faces sliding and nuzzling, breaths coming fast, lips parted but not meeting. He presses his cheek against her chin, and she bares her neck to him. Her body remembers him, remembers how good they are at this.

She thinks as loudly as she can, _If you need me, if you ask me, I'll say yes._

But then, that's the problem-the asking.

His hands slide around to hold hers, and he's stopping, and when she looks up at him again, he looks guilty.

"This," he says, clearing his throat. "It's . . . not fair to you," is all he can say.

She squeezes his hands. "It's not fair to anybody."


	6. Chapter 6

Irene Adler's alive, and John sort of wishes she weren't, but not really, because she is somehow helping him see things more clearly.

Sherlock has the violin in his hands and faces the window.

"So. She's alive." John stands near the fireplace with a glass of scotch in his hands. Rocks on his heels. "How are we feeling about that?" he asks.

The chimes signalling midnight begin to sound. "Happy New Year, John," Sherlock says, obviously deflecting.

But John asks immediately, "Do you think you'll be seeing her again?"

Sherlock turns to face him, but then flips the bow gently in his hands. He lifts the violin against his chin and simply begins playing "Auld Lang Syne," turning back to the window.

John is nothing if not patient with Sherlock, so he sits down in his armchair and takes a sip of his drink and waits for his friend to finish playing.

Sherlock sets the violin down gently, then comes to sit in his own chair by the fire.

"Why do you want to know?" He hasn't met John's eyes, staring into the fire instead. "Are you hoping I'll get a girlfriend of my own? Stop running yours off?"

John chuckles a little. "No. I've no doubt that if you wanted a girlfriend, you'd have one." He takes another sip of his drink and continues. "And she's certainly interested."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "But?" he prods.

"But. Girlfriends, boyfriends. Not your area," John answers.

Sherlock's eyes flick to him momentarily. "No."

"But you find her . . . not boring."

"She's very clever," Sherlock evades.

"Cleverer than me," John says without thinking.

Sherlock looks at him then. "Are you jealous?"

"Yes," John blurts.

They blink at each other in surprise, and John takes refuge in his glass, pulling a long sip and swallowing hard. He sets it down. Sherlock simply stares at John, trying to deduce him and for once having a hard time of it.

"Not. Ah. Not _sexually_ jealous," John attempts to clarify, and Sherlock relaxes a fraction. John sighs. "I don't know how to explain it."

Sherlock's face admits the smallest amount of vulnerability possible. "Try," he says softly.

John sees it, knows what it cost him to let John see it, so he nods. Clears his throat.

"You're my best friend, Sherlock. No question. And that's not obligation, it's not gratitude. Yes, you've done a lot for me. You brought me back to life, really. But I share my life with you now by choice. I'm here with you, solving cases, putting up with whatever that thing is in the fridge, all of it, because I choose to be."

His voice is rough, and he wants to blame the drink, but he can't. He dares to look up then, and Sherlock's expression is so carefully open that he must continue.

"I want to be with you-here, by your side-for the rest of my life."

His fingers rub at his forehead and he huffs out a breath, no longer caring what he sounds like. The words come out of him, quiet and fast. "And I hoped you wanted that too."

He can't make himself look up after that. The silence stretches long enough that John is certain he has made a grave mistake, ruined something between them. He hears Sherlock shifting out of the chair and then slim fingers are wrapping gently around his own.

"I do," Sherlock says softly, crouching next to John's chair.

John stares at their hands. He can't trust his voice to work, but he tries. "Good," he whispers. He looks at Sherlock then, locking eyes with his friend, his flatmate, his madman.

"The rest of our lives could be quite a long time, John," Sherlock says conversationally, and his hand remains where it is.

"God willing," John answers automatically, his voice still quiet.

"What about girlfriends? A wife? Children?"

John stays very still. "It's like you said. Anyone who wants to build a life with me will have to accept that you're . . ."

No adequate description occurs to him.

". . . part of the deal," he decides on.

Sherlock bites at his lip and says, "That would be a special woman, indeed."

John doesn't say what he's thinking, doesn't say that Irene seems to qualify, in some ways, as special. And he doesn't have to. Sherlock unwinds his fingers from John's hand and waves them at him in annoyance.

"Oh, don't be silly, John. Yes, I'm glad the woman is not dead. The world is more interesting with her in it. But that's the extent of my regard for her."

John raises a dubious eyebrow.

"She's a worthy opponent," Sherlock says, standing up. "A _diversion_."

He moves towards the kitchen, but stops, resting his hand along John's shoulder. John finds himself holding his breath.

"She's not you," Sherlock says softly. He grips John's shoulder, and John is more than a bit surprised at the reassuring gesture. John reaches up to Sherlock's hand and squeezes, surprised again when Sherlock lets him.

After a moment, Sherlock pulls away gently, and John lets him go.

"Goodnight, John," he says, crossing through the kitchen towards his room.

"Happy New Year, Sherlock," John replies.


	7. Chapter 7

_From here on in we diverge completely from the canon timeline. Needs must. Set sometime after all events from "A Scandal in Belgravia."_

_x-x-x_

The storm knocked out the power to the inn nearly two hours ago and the temperature in the room has dropped dramatically. John tries to sleep, but his toes are numb. He finally puffs out a breath of frustration and heaves himself out of bed. He digs through his bag with frozen fingers and pulls on a jumper over his t-shirt and an extra pair of socks.

He hears a squeaking noise out in the hall, and there's a rap at the door. He pads over to answer it.

"Brought some supplies," the innkeeper says, indicating a wheeled cart near him that is full of firewood. He comes in, and John goes to open the flue.

The innkeeper hands newspaper and fat wood to him.

"Power's out through the whole county. Land line's still working if you need it," he explains. He is elderly and a bit frail, and John is certain he shouldn't be kneeling on the stone hearth. Even his own knees are complaining with the cold.

Sherlock stays in his bed, burrowed into his covers.

"Thank you, that's very kind," John fills in as the flames catch. "Need help with anything?" He rises, automatically putting out a hand to help the old man up.

The innkeeper takes the offered hand and pulls up to standing. "Ta, but no, it's but the five rooms, and everyone's got a fire now."

He smiles and ambles towards the door, which John opens for him, letting him out with a small smile. He closes and locks the door behind him.

"For God's sake, come over here," John says to Sherlock. "I can see you shivering from here."

John begins pulling the mattress off his own twin bed, and Sherlock unearths himself from his blankets and moves over to help him lay it near the fire. As Sherlock tucks himself onto the mattress, sitting with his toes stretched towards the flames, John grabs the comforter that has fallen to the floor.

Without hesitation, John settles in right next to Sherlock, tucking the comforter around them both until only their faces and Sherlock's toes peek out.

"My nose is cold," Sherlock complains.

John reaches up and places a gentle hand at the back of Sherlock's head, tipping him forward until Sherlock's nose is safely tucked in the crook of his neck.

"There," John says. "Better?"

"Yes," Sherlock says against his skin.

In the morning, the fire is out, the heat is back on, and Sherlock is snuggled up alongside him. Beneath the comforter, their limbs tangle together. Sherlock's long legs intertwine with John's, and his nose is still nestled in John's neck.

John finds he doesn't mind.

Eventually Sherlock stirs and blinks up at him, lifting his head away in surprise.

"Morning," John greets with a sleepy smile.

"Morning," Sherlock answers, his tone cautious.

"Good thing you don't wiggle too much in your sleep, or I'd have ended up in the fire," John says.

"Good thing," Sherlock says, still not sounding like himself.

John closes his eyes again. "For being so skinny, you make a good pillow," he mumbles. He is warm and comfortable and would like to drift off to sleep again, but he knows the odds are not good.

Sure enough, Sherlock tenses suddenly and struggles to sit up.

"John!"

"Mmph."

"It's stopped raining!"

"Fantastic deduction."

He can feel Sherlock frown at him. "No time to lay about; we've got to get to the grange immediately and examine the barn for evidence." Sherlock is up and bounding across the room to get dressed.

John sighs. "Fine. Yes, all right." He pushes himself up and runs a hand over his face. The bed seems cold now anyway.

x-x-x

_Notes: Thank yous to wiggleofjudas, i_ship_an_armada, and prideandprejudiceandcheese for their generous betaing._


	8. Chapter 8

That afternoon, on the drive home, Sherlock steals looks at John from the passenger seat. John notices, but he's choosing not to say anything yet. Observing John has not led Sherlock to any conclusions other than that John is no more or less talkative than usual, no more or less tired than usual, nothing but usual.

And yet.

"You're not gay," Sherlock blurts.

John coughs. "Um, ahem. No," he answers, keeping his eyes on the road.

Sherlock frowns. He wants to continue, but all he has is questions. John helps him out.

"Are you . . . concerned about the . . ."

Yes. What to call it?

"Co-sleeping?" John attempts.

It's a ridiculous word, but the thought of saying "snuggling" or "cuddling" instead makes Sherlock shudder.

"Yes," he says simply.

John is quiet for a moment. "Did it . . . make you feel uncomfortable?"

"No," Sherlock answers. "Did it . . ."

This is an intolerable conversation.

Sherlock tries again. "Were you? Uncomfortable, I mean."

"No."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Good Lord, they are never going to get anywhere like this. He huffs and then the questions tumble out of him.

"Were you aroused?"

"No," John answers firmly.

"But you were comfortable?"

"Yes." Answered equally firmly.

"And _why _were you comfortable?"

"I dunno. Because I was warm, and you were warm, and it seemed . . . nice."

"'Nice' in what way?"

"'Nice', like in the way that it was not objectionable; 'nice' like . . . affectionate."

"And," Sherlock pauses only briefly. "Is that. Is that what you feel, affection?"

John clears his throat. "I feel many things towards you," he answers, and Sherlock senses a joking sort of irritation behind his tone. "Affection being one of them."

Sherlock sits very still at that. It seems rather improbable that after all this time together, they are only beginning to discuss these things, but there is nothing for it. Last night he had been given an opportunity to experience what a physically affectionate life with John Watson might be like. He has observed John not behaving any differently afterwards, simply treating it like something normal and natural, nothing to be concerned about, and that has allowed a tiny bud of hope to grow within him.

Sherlock looks over to John once more. Fairly calm. Loose grip on the steering wheel. Only a slight look of befuddlement on his features.

He turns to stare out the windscreen at the vaguely bucolic scenery. "I'm not gay either."

"Okay," John says.

Sherlock keeps his eyes forward and reminds himself that giving in to fear has never gotten him anywhere.

"I'm asexual."

There is a pause, and then John says, "Okay," in the same tone as before.

Sherlock rubs the nail of his middle finger along the length of his thumb, over and over. John clears his throat again.

"All right, so, as you know, my sister's gay, but what you may not know is how much she talked my ear off about sexuality when we were teenagers. I mean, it was the only topic that was of any interest to her for the longest time. I am, also, a doctor, you may have noticed. So I'm not, you know, completely dim on the subject," John offers.

Sherlock raises one eyebrow.

"So I know that there's a . . . spectrum. Each person defines it for themselves, and that definition can be-" John paused. "Amended."

And then John does glance over to him, his features open but also knowing. "And I'm going to assume that you want to talk about your definition of it, or you wouldn't have brought this up at all."

Sherlock looks away, half-wishing John had been a little less perceptive. _Fine_.

"I abhor labels."

"So don't use them."

Sherlock frowns, but continues. "I have no interest in participating in the physical act of sex. None whatsoever."

"Which is fine," John interjects.

"I know it's-" And then they're both smiling a bit at that, and Sherlock feels the tension slowly begin to ebb.

"I've never had much of a sex drive. I have no desire in that sense," Sherlock says. "And before you ask, yes, I masturbate, though rarely, and no, there's nothing medically wrong with me."

"All right," John says, still maddeningly neutral. "So, what were you thinking this morning, then, when we woke up. Like that."

"Why do you ask questions you already know the answers to?"

John sighs. "Forgive me if I think this is something I shouldn't guess about."

Sherlock remains stubbornly silent.

"Fine. I think you like nonsexual physical closeness, but that you might jump out of this car if I call it 'cuddling.'"

"Yes," Sherlock answers quickly, mostly to cut off the dreaded word. "But not exactly."

"This is -" John glances upward as though for guidance, "-an impossible conversation."

Sherlock nods because he can not agree more.

"An important conversation, and you deliberately bring this up when I'm driving and can't look at you for more than two seconds."

Sherlock scowls. John really is becoming entirely too insightful.

"Look, I think we've established by now that I'm rubbish at deducing, so you're going to have to tell me what you want."

Sherlock thinks he might rather jump out of the car.

"I'm going to say this once and never repeat it," he pronounces.

John stays still and doesn't look at him. "I'm listening."

"What happened last night was . . . good. But it's not something I would enjoy in general. It's specific to you."

Sherlock listens to John breathe and feels that he might be, in truth, dying, waiting for John to respond.

"What else do you like?" John asks. "Or think you might like. With me." His words, his tone, are so very soft and careful.

Sherlock shudders and grabs at the door handle. "Stop the car."

"What? _Here_?"

But Sherlock really is opening the door, and John pulls over quickly to the side of the road. Sherlock bounds out of the car, and begins pacing, as John gets out on his side and walks around to him. There's a fence, so Sherlock can't properly escape, and he feels like climbing one of the trees and hiding.

"Hey, it's okay," John says, putting out a hand in a supplicating gesture. "We don't have to talk about this right now."

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, no, it's too late for that. It's like a runaway train." He waves his hands near his head.

"Oh, well, that bodes well." John sighs, but then Sherlock slides his hands into his hair and tugs.

"Hey, I'm kidding, it's going to be fine," John says more gently. Sherlock sees his hands hesitating, clearly not sure if reaching out to him is a good idea or not. Sherlock groans and slides down to the ground, his back against the rear tire of the car.

"Okay," John says, moving to sit next to him. He puts a hand on Sherlock's back, very gently, and the vacillation behind it sickens him, makes him regret asking the first question that started all this.

"So. This is new," John says calmly. His hand moves in small circles on Sherlock's back. "But it's-"

"If you say 'fine' one more time-"

"It's good, okay? Just give me a minute."

His touch becomes firmer, more natural, and Sherlock relaxes a fraction.

"I'm open to figuring it out as we go, okay? Nothing has to be decided right now."

Sherlock huffs out a breath and sinks his head against John's chest. "Can we please stop talking about this now?"

"Yes."

John smiles and squeezes Sherlock's shoulder.

After a moment, Sherlock lifts his head, and soon they are both getting up and getting back in.

John nods tightly once and starts the car.

x-x-x

_Notes: Thanks again to wiggleofjudas, i_ship_an_armada, and prideandprejudiceandcheese for betaing._


	9. Chapter 9

Sarah is ready to stick a fork into the back of her hand.

"So when your Great Uncle Beaumont was just a wee lad, we all moved out into the country, and well, that really was the beginning of it all, let me tell you-"

Despite all her deft avoidance maneuvers, Sarah is trapped next to her Great Aunt Giselle, who is pushing ninety and notorious for telling the same interminable stories of her youth over and over again. Sarah has heard this particular tale many times in her thirty-seven years, and she knows that she is about to lose twenty to thirty minutes of her life listening to it yet again.

_Thirty-seven_.

Her eyes glance over the hall, her family gathering for her cousin's wedding reception. So many gingery heads ranged at tables around her. So many wives and mothers.

Knowing that she is only required to nod and hum at the prescribed pauses, Sarah's mind wanders as the story continues.

So many children.

She has never yearned for children the way some of her friends have, as though life simply could not be complete until they had experienced motherhood. Any romantic notions about marriage or parenthood she may have had have been wiped away by reality, by half a lifetime of seeing the best and worst of love within her own family.

And yet, lately, she is finding life a bit . . .

Lonely.

Quiet.

Dull.

And, here, surrounded by the chatter of nearly two hundred people, she feels alone. Overlooked. Loved, yes, but in the abstract. The specifics are not of interest. Sarah is gripped by the sudden urge to dye her hair purple, to wear too much eyeliner and punky black outfits, to declare publicly:

_I have sex._

_I have stared down abusive husbands until the police arrive._

_I have fought off Chinese gangsters._

_I have fallen desperately in love with a man who is probably in love with someone else and I will not get back together with him because I respect myself._

Because it certainly seems that John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are more involved with each other than ever.

Three days ago, she had gone to the cafeteria at St. Bart's to meet a friend. Arriving early, Sarah got coffee and sat facing the main door and the wall of glass with a view to the hallway outside so as to catch sight of her friend.

What she saw instead was John and Sherlock, coming off the lift. Before she could register any one emotion of her own, she noticed Sherlock's excitement, John's grim face. Sherlock bounced ahead down the hallway a ways before noticing that John had stopped, hands clenched, gaze to the floor. Sherlock returned, stopping quite close, leaning against the wall, saying something.

John shook his head.

And then Sherlock inclined his head until their foreheads touched. His hand nearest the wall came forward and clasped John's fist, sliding around it until John unclenched and then for a moment, their fingers intertwined. John said something, and the detective smiled.

An instant later, Sherlock was off again down the hallway, John grinning to himself and following a pace behind.

Sarah had found herself overwhelmed, jumbled, conflicting emotions clamoring inside her. She abandoned her coffee, texted a note to cancel the plans with her friend, and ended up crying in an empty stairwell with nothing but scratchy cafeteria napkins to blow her nose, to press against her eyelids to stop the hot, stinging tears.

And now, sitting across from her great aunt, she nods and hmms and wonders what it means. Because she thinks it means it's over.

Whatever might have happened with her and John-

Whatever balance she was hoping John could strike between Sherlock's desires and his own-

Her hope is gone. Her tears are gone.

She is going to die of boredom in this very chair and no one will ever know how interesting and strong she actually was.

"Sarah! _There _you are!" says a bright voice to her left, and Sarah startles as though she had been asleep. She looks up to see her absolute favorite cousin beaming down at her. Ginny is six years younger than her, already has found and married the love of her life and had no less than three children, and yet she never makes Sarah feel defective or behind or boring.

"Sorry to interrupt, but I simply have to steal Sarah from you, Great Aunt Giselle," Ginny says, and Sarah could kiss her right then. Ginny puts her hand around Sarah's arm and urges her to stand. "The little ones are doing my nut in-you know how it is," Ginny continues, smiling apologetically. "So I've come to enlist Sarah as co-wrangler."

"Yes, dear, of course," the elderly woman says, willing to do anything to help a fellow wife and mother and probably hoping Ginny's example will rub off on Sarah. She waves them off and Ginny leads Sarah directly to the bar.

"Here," she says, handing Sarah a glass of something amber-colored that smells enticingly flammable.

"Bless you," Sarah says, taking a sip. Whatever it is, it is perfect. "And the kids?"

Ginny waves a hand and shakes her head. "Oh, no, they're with their father. His turn to be on-duty," she answers. "I say we go find a corner to hide in until cake time."

Sarah smiles and lifts her drink. "Cheers."

"Cheers," her cousin responds, raising her own glass. "Now come and tell me absolutely everything."

Sarah smiles and thinks maybe she will do just that.

_x-x-x_

_Notes: Hugs to Jude and Armada for being Betas Full of Speed and Awesome._


	10. Chapter 10

The day is rainy and boring, but Sherlock is finding domesticity slightly less dull than he used to. John sits in his armchair, holding a book but not really reading it, as Sherlock dismantles a printer on the floor by the desk.

"How do you feel about kissing?"

Something small pops out from the printer's innards and Sherlock frowns. "I don't enjoy it."

"Okay."

A thought occurs to Sherlock and he turns to look at John. "Do you enjoy it?"

"I very much enjoy kissing women."

"Have you kissed men?"

John shifts in his seat. "Yes."

_So. Didn't like it, then. Not sexually interested in men, but open enough to try it at one point, perhaps influenced by Harry's experiences._

"What are you going to do about sex?" Sherlock asks, scrunching his eyebrows.

John's face scrunches up in return. "What d'you mean?"

"You haven't had sex with anyone in at least two months, and you haven't had a girlfriend for nearly twice that."

"That's hardly a record for time gone without sex," John counters.

Sherlock dips his chin and stares hard at John.

"Yes, okay, I don't exactly have an answer to that right now."

Sherlock turns back to the printer.

Half an hour later he says, "You know that I don't expect you to give it up for . . . me."

John looks up from his book and is clearly trying to grasp the thread of the conversation.

"Sex. You don't have to give up sex."

"I . . ." John closes his mouth. "Thank you."

"The logistics of it are quite simple. You could certainly arrange for-"

John sits up straight. "No, no, there won't be any of that. No."

_So, no prostitution. Not surprising, though it would a direct solution._

John shakes his head and tries again. "I . . ."

Sherlock looks him over. Lips pursed, fingers of left hand curling and uncurling. _Anxious_.

"It's not just sex for me, Sherlock, though, sure, there was a time when that was all I was looking for. But I need more than that, now." John looks down and adds softly, "A lot more."

_Ah_. John is looking for the impossible woman. The woman who loves John and accepts Sherlock. He sees the lines around John's eyes and finds himself compelled.

"While I consider myself without equal, I'm hardly the only extraordinary person we've come across. It'd be stupid to stop searching simply because you have high standards," Sherlock declares, turning back to the printer carcass.

He can _hear_ John's surprise and smirks down at the carpet. _Yes, I have the capacity to be reassuring; put that on your bloody blog._

When he sneaks a look later, the tightness around John's eyes is gone.

_x-x-x_

_Notes: Hugs to wiggleofjudas who always seems to be available at the magic moment that I need her, especially for this fic! _


End file.
